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Additional Credits

Video

Photographer Statement

In the early to mid-1980's, over 150,000 Cambodians resettled in
America from refugee camps along the Thai-Cambodian border. They were the survivors of one of most radical social, economic and political upheavals in the twentieth century which nearly eliminated the history and culture of an entire nation. Given the nature of the unprecedented social, political, and economic upheaval carried out by the Khmer Rouge - the entire backbone of society, professionals, artists, musicians, and monks, were systematically executed - the survivors were largely uneducated and illiterate. As a result, never in the history of refugee resettlement did a population suffer such extensive and prolonged trauma and were in addition so ill-equipped to resettle successfully due to their lack of skills and resources. To compound
their suffering, life in the inner-city of America, where many were
resettled, was at times violent and isolating.

As a son of the Killing Fields born in 1982 in the refugee camp to
which my family had fled following the Cambodian genocide, I have struggled for most of my life to understand the legacy of my people. Over the last year, I engaged in a series of conversations with Cambodian-Americans about our history and the complexity of their experience while photographing community members in Philadelphia, Pa.; Lowell, Mass. and the Bronx, N.Y.

After surviving the Killing Fields, my family, along with hundreds of
thousands of survivors, risked their lives trekking through the
Khmer-Rouge-controlled jungle to reach a refugee camp in Thailand. There, my mother had what she believes to be a prophetic dream. In a field, an entire city’s worth of women were clawing with their bare hands in bloodstained dirt searching for an elusive diamond. To the disbelief of everyone in the dream, she serendipitously stumbled upon it wrapped in a blanket of dirt. The following day she discovered she was pregnant with me. The significance of this didn’t dawn on me until I started photographing this project. It was a vision of hope and renewal, that we as Cambodians are endowed with an incredible resilience and strength in human spirit. I have seen this in the faces
of Cambodians I have photographed and have been incredibly humbled. In the words of my mother, it is a miracle to simply exist.

The Cambodian people are among the most heavily traumatized people in modern memory. They are the human aftermath of a cultural, political, and economic revolution by the Khmer Rouge that killed an estimated two million, nearly a third of the entire population, within a span of four years from 1975-1979. The entire backbone of society—educated professionals, artists, musicians and monks—were systematically executed in a brutal attempt to transform the entirety of Cambodian society to a classless rural collective of peasants. That tragedy casts a long shadow on the lives of Cambodians. It bleeds generationally, manifesting itself subtly within my own family in ways that I am only starting to fully comprehend as an adult. It is ingrained in the sorrow of my grandmother’s eyes; it is sown in the furrows of my parents’ faces.

As a result of the unique demographic circumstances of the genocide, there has been a paucity of reflection within the Cambodian community. Many second-generation Cambodians I have interviewed learned about the Killing Fields through secondary sources, from the Internet and documentary films. Such conversations were non-existent at home. Exacerbating the silence is an inter-generational language barrier; most young Cambodian Americans cannot speak Khmer, the Cambodian
language, while their parents and grandparents are incapable of
speaking English. As a result, we are the literal manifestation of Pol Pot’s attempt to erase Cambodia’s history and culture. However, in spite of this void, there exists a growing movement of young and empowered Cambodians—academics, artists, musicians, and activists—who are trying to bridge this generational chasm.

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In the early to mid-1980's, over 150,000 Cambodians resettled in America from refugee camps along the Thai-Cambodian border. They were the survivors of one of most radical upheavals in the twentieth century which nearly eliminated the history and culture of an entire nation. As a son of the Killing Fields born in 1982 in the refugee camp to which my family had fled following the Cambodian genocide, I have struggled for most of my life to understand the legacy of my people. Over the last year, I engaged in a series of conversations with Cambodian-Americans about our history and the complexity of their experience while photographing community members in Philadelphia, Pa.; Lowell, Mass. and the Bronx, N.Y.

In the early to mid-1980's, over 150,000 Cambodians resettled in America from refugee camps along the Thai-Cambodian border. They were the survivors of one of most radical upheavals in the twentieth century which nearly eliminated the history and culture of an entire nation. As a son of the Killing Fields born in 1982 in the refugee camp to which my family had fled following the Cambodian genocide, I have struggled for most of my life to understand the legacy of my people. Over the last year, I engaged in a series of conversations with Cambodian-Americans about our history and the complexity of their experience while photographing community members in Philadelphia, Pa.; Lowell, Mass. and the Bronx, N.Y.

In the early to mid-1980's, over 150,000 Cambodians resettled in
America from refugee camps along the Thai-Cambodian border. They were the survivors of one of most radical social, economic and political upheavals in the twentieth century which nearly eliminated the history and culture of an entire nation. Given the nature of the unprecedented social, political, and economic upheaval carried out by the Khmer Rouge - the entire backbone of society, professionals, artists, musicians, and monks, were systematically executed - the survivors were largely uneducated and illiterate. As a result, never in the history of refugee resettlement did a population suffer such extensive and prolonged trauma and were in addition so ill-equipped to resettle successfully due to their lack of skills and resources. To compound
their suffering, life in the inner-city of America, where many were
resettled, was at times violent and isolating.

As a son of the Killing Fields born in 1982 in the refugee camp to
which my family had fled following the Cambodian genocide, I have struggled for most of my life to understand the legacy of my people. Over the last year, I engaged in a series of conversations with Cambodian-Americans about our history and the complexity of their experience while photographing community members in Philadelphia, Pa.; Lowell, Mass. and the Bronx, N.Y.

After surviving the Killing Fields, my family, along with hundreds of
thousands of survivors, risked their lives trekking through the
Khmer-Rouge-controlled jungle to reach a refugee camp in Thailand. There, my mother had what she believes to be a prophetic dream. In a field, an entire city’s worth of women were clawing with their bare hands in bloodstained dirt searching for an elusive diamond. To the disbelief of everyone in the dream, she serendipitously stumbled upon it wrapped in a blanket of dirt. The following day she discovered she was pregnant with me. The significance of this didn’t dawn on me until I started photographing this project. It was a vision of hope and renewal, that we as Cambodians are endowed with an incredible resilience and strength in human spirit. I have seen this in the faces
of Cambodians I have photographed and have been incredibly humbled. In the words of my mother, it is a miracle to simply exist.

The Cambodian people are among the most heavily traumatized people in modern memory. They are the human aftermath of a cultural, political, and economic revolution by the Khmer Rouge that killed an estimated two million, nearly a third of the entire population, within a span of four years from 1975-1979. The entire backbone of society—educated professionals, artists, musicians and monks—were systematically executed in a brutal attempt to transform the entirety of Cambodian society to a classless rural collective of peasants. That tragedy casts a long shadow on the lives of Cambodians. It bleeds generationally, manifesting itself subtly within my own family in ways that I am only starting to fully comprehend as an adult. It is ingrained in the sorrow of my grandmother’s eyes; it is sown in the furrows of my parents’ faces.

As a result of the unique demographic circumstances of the genocide, there has been a paucity of reflection within the Cambodian community. Many second-generation Cambodians I have interviewed learned about the Killing Fields through secondary sources, from the Internet and documentary films. Such conversations were non-existent at home. Exacerbating the silence is an inter-generational language barrier; most young Cambodian Americans cannot speak Khmer, the Cambodian
language, while their parents and grandparents are incapable of
speaking English. As a result, we are the literal manifestation of Pol Pot’s attempt to erase Cambodia’s history and culture. However, in spite of this void, there exists a growing movement of young and empowered Cambodians—academics, artists, musicians, and activists—who are trying to bridge this generational chasm.

Sovann Ith, 23, sits alongside his grandmother, Somaly Ith, 83, in the living room of their Bronx apartment. The complex was once predominantly Cambodian, but is now home to just five families. Bronx, New York, Sept. 2011.

Bunthoeun Kann, 29, aka T-Money, who was born in a refugee camp, shows his gunshot wounds from a Cambodian gang member who fired on a crowd of Cambodian teenagers in the parking lot of a Denny's following their prom. He was shot five times. Long Beach, California. Mar. 2011.

Phatry Derek Pan, 30, prays at an altar in the backyard of a Cambodian Buddhist temple in the Bronx, New York. The temple was founded in 1981 by Cambodian refugees, who collectively pooled their resources to raise $100,000 within a year of their arrival in the Bronx. Feb. 2011.

Sonny Vaahn, 25, holds the refugee identification card of his family members, which was given upon initial entry into a refugee camp along the Thai-Cambodian border following the end of the Killing Fields in Cambodia. Bronx, New York, Sept. 2011.

Cambodian Buddhist temple in the Bronx, New York, which was collectively founded and financed in 1981 by community members shortly after their arrival in America. There is little engagement by the youth in temple activities, and many elders fear the eventual disappearance of the temples after the passing of the first generation. Bronx, New York, Sept. 2011.

Friends of Vouthy Tho, a Cambodian community member and personal friend of photographer, visit his gravestone. Mr. Tho was killed by a gang member along with his cousin, a marine who was a purple heart recipient and had just returned from active duty in Iraq. Long Beach, California. Mar. 2011.

Three generations of the Duong family look at old family photos and documents from the refugee camps for the first time in the living room of their Bronx apartment. For many families, these documents are their only possessions from Cambodia. Bronx, New York, Sept. 2011.

Thon Khoun, 47, cooks in the kitchen of her Bronx apartment. Mrs Khoun immigrated as a refugee in 1985 and is a single mother of four. Like many Cambodian refugees, she speaks no English and her children are incapable of speaking Khmer. Bronx, New York, Oct. 2011.

Mobx, 29, a neighborhood dealer, and friend Nex, 30, smoke a blunt in Mobx's bedroom. There is a cultural discord between young Cambodian Americans raised in the inner-city and their parents who fled as refugees from Cambodia. According to Mobx, "When our parent's came here, they just focused on working...they don't know about all this stuff that we know about like gang-banging and drugs around the corner." Bronx, New York. Oct. 2011.